Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Thirteen. Rappelling into Hell

The open space around him took his breath away. All of Manhattan lay below. On the horizon, the ocean glistened under the clear blue skies. The sun blazed away, reflected by the upper stories’ windows.

The line was unwinding at five feet per second. Not too fast, but enough to reach the first floor in under three minutes without getting hurt when it finally stopped. After that, there were two scenarios available. They could either run across the flat roof of an adjacent T-shaped annex, then use the fire escape to get down to the street. Alternatively, they could go back into the building and use one of the elevators to reach the underground parking where Max was waiting in the limo. They didn’t have contact with him: portable radios didn’t reach the parking lot without a signal amplifier, but installing one in the building would have taken too much time and jeopardized the whole mission. Besides, Memoria’s security scanned all frequencies which allowed their workers to detect and blanket out all talks. That’s why Max was supposed to neutralize the guards and keep the parking exits and the cameras under control for an agreed length of time. In case of the others’ failure, he had to leave the building alone.

The rasping of metal against metal made Frank writhe around in order to look up. He didn’t see the end of the rubberized tube overhead. The line had slid off the roller and was now grating against a window ledge above. Frank’s shoulder grazed a buttress, turning him away from the building. He hit the back of his head against a window ledge. His jacket slid up and snapped apart. Between clinching Maggie and gripping the attaché case, he couldn’t kick himself away from the wall for fear of swinging back and smashing their own butts against the window ledges.

Their descent stopped.

They hung opposite a window, rotating on the end of the cord. Frank looked up wondering if the malfunction had triggered the emergency brake or the spool had simply jammed in the rollers.

Three stories above, Barney looked out of the broken window. The wind tore off his hat and blew it away.

“It’s jammed!” Frank shouted.

Barney disappeared. Shots followed.

“Dad!” Maggie screamed.

Frank looked down at her. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Let’s swing,” he held the attaché case with both hands, turned his face to the window and propped his feet against it. “Kick when I count to three. One — two — three!”

They kicked together. Maggie broke a stiletto heel.

They didn’t have enough momentum.

“Again! Bring your knees up!” Frank shouted. “Then use the nail gun!”

He kicked as hard as he could hoping that the side wind would take them a bit further away this time. Maggie raised the nail gun and pressed the trigger under the handle. With a clatter, nails hit the window covering it with a web of cracks.

They swung into the window. Frank held out the attaché case and shielded the girl with his body as best he could. In a shower of shattered glass, they burst inside.

His fingers bleeding, Frank undid the clasps and let go of the girl. He looked around.

“Where are we?” he grabbed her elbow helping her to get up. “Maggie? Do you know this room?”

A large desk with several intercoms on it stood in the middle, surrounded with chairs. Plasma screens covered the walls overhead.

“It’s the conference room.”

“You know how to get out of here?” Frank removed his battered jacket and the harness, listening for any sounds from above.

He couldn’t hear any shooting.

“You think we can reach the elevators without being noticed?”

“We’re trapped,” Maggie’s voice shook. She stood up clenching the nail gun with both hands. “The elevators are along the hallway to our right. To our left, the conference hall. It’s all packed out with security.”

“And if we leave through the conference hall?”

“There’s another staircase there.”

“Let’s go, then,” Frank pulled her hand.

Maggie kicked off her shoes. With one heel broken, they would only hinder their escape.

The door to the room began to open. Frank backed to the wall, covering Maggie. The door opened, concealing them in a narrow niche.

“There’s a broken window down here,” said a voice in the hallway. “I’m going in.”

First, a swaying gun barrel appeared, followed by the hand that held it. A well-built man entered the conference room. He held his left hand up to his face, reporting over the microphone in his sleeve.

A scream echoed from above. A body flashed past the window.

“Damn!” the agent backed up. “He’s fallen out! Someone’s fallen out the building!”

Maggie squeaked. Frank didn’t wait for the agent to turn round. He smashed the attaché case over his shoulder and kicked him in the hip, pushing the man to the desk. He ran out into the hallway, about to turn left, when he realized he’d done so too soon. Another security agent stood to his right. The gun in his hand jerked and banged.

Frank stuck out the attaché case to protect his ribs. One of the bullets tore through his shirt and stung his shoulder. The others clanged as they smashed into the attaché case’s steel lid without piercing it. Luckily, Frank stood with his side to the agent. His elbow joint snapped and his fingers let go of the attaché case handle. Frank released it and turned to face the gun.

His old street fighting skills saved him. He ducked under the gun and his left arm shot up, the fist hitting the opponent’s elbow. Frank stood up and leaned forward, butting the man upwards, his forehead breaking the bridge of the man’s nose.

The agent jerked. His eyes rolled and he fell backwards. Frank exhaled, his fingers feeling his shoulder and collarbone under the red spot spreading on his shirt. His awkward fingers tore the shirt open. Just a deep scratch.

He bent down to pick up the attaché case and received a kick to his stomach. His sight darkened. His breath was paralyzed by a new assailant attacking the unprepared Frank from the conference room.

The next kick sent him sprawling to the floor. Frank pulled his knees up to his stomach and covered his chest with his elbows and knees from the pointing gun. The agent stepped out into the hallway and turned to face Frank, the weapon in his outstretched hand.

Frank heard dry snapping coming from the room.

The hand holding the gun jerked to the wall and stayed there, the agent wailing in agony. Nail heads showed through his forearm. Several more had pierced his open hand; one had entered between his fingers immobilizing the trigger.

Maggie appeared in the doorway. Pale, she threw the spent nail gun on the floor and recoiled from it. Her scream flooded the hallway when she saw the man’s arm — his blood splattering the wall, dripping from the many nail holes.

It gave Frank enough time to roll aside, grab the attaché case and with a swing slam it into the agent’s legs. The man cried out but stayed on his feet. Dazed, he stepped forward and tried to kick Frank in the shoulder but screamed with pain from his nailed arm. Frank got to his feet and wacked the attaché case against the small of his back.

“Run,” he croaked and, holding his stomach, staggered toward the conference hall.

Maggie didn’t move. She stood there staring at the man sliding down the wall. Frank came back and grabbed her.

“Run! Now!” Suddenly he stopped and bent over the other shooter lying in the doorway. He pulled at the motionless man’s shoulder turning him face down. “Help me,” he started pulling off the man’s jacket.

The right arm slid out of the sleeve easily. The left one got stuck but Maggie promptly helped him release it.

Behind their backs, voices mixed with the growing tramping of many feet.

“Now run.”

The jacket was biggish. As he ran, Frank pulled the tie off his neck and slid one hand into the loop. Wincing with the pain in his stomach and cuts on his fingers, he wound the attaché case handle to his wrist with the tie. Now he wouldn’t lose it.

“There!” Maggie grabbed his hand, pushed a door and dragged him into a room.

“Lock it, quick.”

The lock clicked. Maggie led Frank through a maze of desks to an adjacent office behind a glass partition. It looked as if it could lead them to the other side of the hallway they’d just left.

Maggie stopped by the door and pulled the handle.

“It’s locked.”

“Step aside,” he motioned her away from the door and stepped back to take a kick at it. Then he changed his mind. There could be more security there. “Where does this door lead to?”

“To the other wing. There’s a utility hallway behind the conference hall.”

“And then?”

“If we turn right, we’ll come across the service elevator. We can use it to go down to the parking lot.”

“That’ll do,” Frank pressed his ear against the door.

He could barely hear voices. And they came from the right, of all places. Not good. He crouched and opened the attaché case. Before starting for Memoria, Barney had packed it with everything he needed: the camera, the chargers, the leads, and also a tool box. Frank found a flathead screwdriver, placed it against the lock and slapped his hand against the handle. The flat head sank about an inch deep between the frame and the lock. He slapped it again burying the screwdriver in the hole exactly halfway through and jerked it to prise the steel tongue of the lock open. The hinges creaked. The plastic around the keyhole burst and the door opened.

Frank peered into the crack. At the far end of the hallway stood four men and two women. Their clothes didn’t give a hint as to who they were, although one of them in a dark business suit looked like a security agent. He stood with his back to the door. Two of the men had cameras hanging from their necks. Reporters. How did they get here? Were they late for the press conference?

Frank turned to Maggie sizing her up and down. She had no shoes, but if he went first with her behind him, this fact might go unnoticed. As long as they made it to the elevator.

“How do I look?” he asked.

Maggie buttoned up his jacket, took his hand in hers covering the cuts with her fingers, and nodded.

“You walk behind me,” Frank said. “There are six people at the end of the hallway, six journalists, but one of them is wearing a dark suit. He could be a Fed.

“But what if he-” Maggie didn’t finish.

Someone jerked the door handle in the adjacent room, then knocked; someone else shouted a few words, their meaning perfectly clear. They were about to break the door down.

Frank took a deep breath and walked out into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” he started as he strode toward the reporters. “Did you hear the shots?”

The man in the dark suit looked back at him.

“We were busy working,” Frank chattered not allowing him time to find his bearings. “And then it all started…”

He came close to the group. To demonstrate his fear, he swallowed and opened his eyes wide, looking about. Around the corner he saw a spacious hall with large automatic doors — apparently, leading to the conference hall, — shut close. Opposite it was the service elevator. The screen over the call button displayed the number 60: the elevator was about ten stories below.

“We hid under the desks when it all started,” Frank flapped his hand to show his excitement. “And now it seems to be quiet…”

“Stand here by the wall, sir,” the agent pointed him to some free space to his left. “Try to calm down. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” Frank shook his head. “Nor is my secretary. We just want—”

“Sir? Can I see your bracelet, please? Stand by the wall and give me your name.”

The agent reached under his clothes for his gun, and Frank buried his knee into his crotch. The reporters winced. Frank lowered his fist onto the doubled-up agent’s head. A woman screamed.

“Stay where you are!” Frank shouted to them. He grabbed Maggie’s hand and dragged her to the elevator.

The seconds of waiting turned into minutes. It felt as if the elevator would never come.

“That is Shelby,” he heard a worried whisper.

“Who?”

“Frank Shelby,” a bearded reporter said, readying his camera.

“No way!” the first one answered. “Are you sure?”

“It can’t be,” a woman flapped.

“I tell you!” the bearded man raised his camera.

Behind Frank’s back, the elevator’s steel doors opened with a groan.

“Don’t move!” he stuck out his hand, sheltering himself from the lens. Then he knew what he had to tell them. “I didn’t kill Kathleen Baker,” he lowered his hand.

Maggie pressed the button for the parking level. The doors started to close. Cameras flashed, filling the hallway with loud voices and the hurried footsteps of his chasers.

“I didn’t kill her!” Frank lifted the attaché case. “Here’s the evidence!”

With a judder, the cabin moved down. Overhead, the hoist machines hummed.

“You think they believed me?” Frank turned to Maggie.

She was looking at the ceiling. On the display over her shoulder, the numbers of the floors went down.

“Hello?”

She motioned him to wait. Frank glanced at the display: the elevator had reached the 40th floor. The light overhead blinked and went out. Something clicked, then they heard a bang. With a screech, the cabin shook and stopped.

“They’ve blocked us,” Frank pressed button after button, but nothing happened. The display read, Emergency Stop.

He walked into the corner under the ceiling hatch, jumped up and pushed the hatch open.

“Frank Shelby! Don’t try to escape!” a voice rattled. “Stay where you are.”

“Get lost!” It took Frank a second to realize the voice was coming out of the elevator’s intercom.

“Otherwise we’ll be forced to shoot. Stay where you are.”

He loosened the loop on his wrist, placed the attaché case onto the floor, pulled himself up and squeezed his body through the hatch. The fresh injuries reminded him of themselves. His muscles and ribs started aching. Frank spat, annoyed. He leaned down into the hatch and held out his hand,

“Give me the attaché case.”

Maggie did.

“Get up here,” Frank commanded.

“But I…” After a brief hesitation, the girl reached out. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her out onto the roof. Then he shut the hatch close, annoyed with the mumbling in the speakers.

He looked up. Some of the floors overhead didn’t have elevator doors.

“The service elevator doesn’t stop at every level, does it?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Then we just might make it to the parking lot.”

He stepped toward the rough wall, barely visible in the pale emergency lighting. “We’ll climb down.”

Maggie came closer and peered down.

“You can do it,” Frank pulled off his jacket. “We’re at an advantage at the moment. We can escape before they get to us. Come on, let’s go.”

“On one condition. I’ll go first.”

Frank turned and looked into her huge eyes, filled with determination.

“Why?”

His throat went dry. He couldn’t let her go first. Too risky for her.

“Because you have the attaché case,” she stepped toward him. “Come on now.”

Before squeezing himself between the wall and the cabin, Frank pulled the handle on the elevator’s roof, blocking the hoist mechanism.

“To make sure they don’t squash us… accidentally,” he explained. “The temptation might be too much.”

They could descend by one of two routes. They could either use the slapdash steel ladders welded into the beams. Alternatively, they could use the cables. Not the elevator cables but those that snaked along the shaft walls providing seismic reinforcement. This was a much faster way but also much more dangerous.

Below, not every story had elevator doors. Frank peered into the dark void. He couldn’t care less why some levels didn’t have elevator access. They had to act fast, that was all that mattered.

He chose the latter escape route. He ripped the sleeves out of his jacket and wound them around Maggie’s wrists. For a second he wondered if letting her go first was a good idea. But she was right: if she needed help, then for him to climb up, attaché case in hand, would prove much harder than to descend toward her.

This time he didn’t use his tie to secure the attaché case handle onto his wrist. Instead, he drew his trouser belt tight and attached the attaché case to it. The belt dug into his waist. Frank passed the end of his tie under the belt and secured the ends around his neck. This way it was more secure, but also easier to breathe.

“Ready?” Not waiting for her to answer, he grasped Maggie’s shoulders and helped her to get hold of one of the cables. “If you need to stop, squeeze your legs around it.”

“Okay,” slowly, the girl started to descend.

Frank looped the remains of his jacket-turned-waistcoat around the cable. He wrapped the loose ends around his wrists, breathed out and followed Maggie.

He feared that they would switch off the emergency lighting in the shaft. That would prevent them from seeing the large painted floor numbers on the walls and, basically, would stop the descent. But the light stayed on. Their chasers only appeared in the shaft several minutes later. By that time, Frank and Maggie were far below.

The girl got the hang of it and was sliding down confidently, paying no attention to the voices overhead. Frank slowed down to glance at the torch beams cutting through the dark above, and whispered breathlessly,

“How much left?”

“Fifteen stories,” Maggie answered without stopping.

The pain in his left leg grew. After yesterday’s fight, his ribs ached. The trouser belt dug into his stomach. If only he could loosen it up, let go of the weight and grab a breath of air.

“Stop,” Maggie whispered and froze.

A cramp shot through Frank’s hip. He swore under his breath and clasped the cable tight just over the girl’s head. They’d stopped opposite the elevator doors, and he didn’t like it.

“Why did you stop?” he winced with pain. “We only have a few floors left…”

“There’s somebody down there.”

Frank pulled himself to the wall and lowered his body onto a steel beam circling the shaft. “I can’t see anyone.”

“I assure you. I heard someone speak.”

He looked at the doors. They could open at any moment. Then they couldn’t escape their pursuers any longer.

“We have no other way,” Frank said. “We’ve got to move.” But he didn’t really believe he could do it. He had no energy left.

“We could get out here and use a normal elevator,” underneath, Maggie placed a foot onto a beam and, pressing her back to the wall, moved closer to the doors.

A powerful beam of light hit them.

“There they are!” a voice growled.

“Everyone to level three!” another one ordered.

Hadn’t Maggie said they still had fifteen floors to cover? What did the voice mean, then? Or did they mean by levels the distances between those floors where the service elevator stopped?

The girl pulled a lever overhead.

“Help me!” she snapped.

Frank managed to get down. Together they prised the doors open and fell into the opening.

“Get up,” Maggie croaked in his ear. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

Frank rolled over to his side and opened his eyes. The hallway swam before him. The pain in his leg rose and filled his ribs, stabbing his lungs.

“Get up,” Maggie pulled his elbow.

Frank undid the trouser belt, picked up the attaché case and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hold on to me,” Maggie offered him her shoulder. Leaning on her arm, he limped along the corridor.

“Now,” she glanced back, “why are we lower than I thought we were?”

“Don’t… know,” Still exhausted from his sliding down the cable, Frank gasped for air. He clenched his teeth and forced his feet to walk, hoping against hope that Max was still waiting for them.

“There,” Maggie pushed a door to their right. They found themselves in a stairwell. “Hurry up. There are only two flights left.”

“Go find Max,” Frank grabbed at the railing.

The girl hurried ahead.

When Frank reached the parking, he nearly walked under the speeding limo. It braked. Max leaned from his driver’s seat and opened the passenger’s door for him. Maggie jumped out from the back seat and helped him into the car. As soon as she got back in, Max turned on the headlights, drove to the ramp exit at the back of the building and stepped on the gas.

The Maybach gained momentum on the slope and sped out into the deserted street flooded with light. For a split second all four wheels lost traction with the ground. The front bumper smashed the lowered barrier into pieces. In the back, Maggie tumbled off her seat and screamed. Yet unbuckled, Frank hit his head hard against the roof, then jarred his jaw on the dashboard before momentum pushed him back into his seat. Without slowing down, Max locked the wheel to the right manipulating the gas and brakes until the car stopped skidding and sped away from the corporation building.

’Buckle up!” Max yelled. “It’s not over yet!”

Finally, Frank located the safety belt buckle above his right shoulder, pulled it across his chest and buckled up. He looked back. Maggie had scrambled back into her seat and was now desperately pushing the clasp inside the lock.

“Wrong lock!” Max glanced at the flashing buckle-up pictogram on the dashboard. “The left one!” He sent the car to the left. With a scream, Maggie tumbled over her seat. “Buckle up!” Max growled.

Frank heard a click in the back. The pictogram turned to green.

“Where’re we going?” Frank stared in front of him, the breakneck speed making him forget the pain in his legs and ribs.

The coach didn’t yet answer when a massive shadow covered the sun. A chopper whirred over the Maybach, turned around over an intersection ahead and froze, descending and blocking the way. Masked armed men in black uniforms and helmets sat in the cargo bay. Memoria’s orange flower marked the chopper’s side.

Without hesitation, the coach turned the car onto the empty sidewalk, clear of people and cars because of the President’s arrival. The limo smashed into a shop window and crossed the store knocking over a few mannequins inside. The car’s left wing hit the side of an enormous display wardrobe, collapsed the sales counter and rammed through the opposite glass wall into the adjacent street.

Frank glanced behind his shoulder. The chopper whirred over the intersection, turning. It raised its tail boom, gained speed and started to catch up.

“They’re coming!” Frank shouted.

“I know,” the coach said looking in the mirror.

At the next intersection, he took a sharp turn and rammed a patrol car. The massive Maybach threw it backwards, squashing the patrol car’s hood: its windscreen cracked and the light bar went tumbling off the car roof. The patrol car jumped the curb, hit the wall of a building, then rolled out into the street blocking the way.

Max locked the wheel and stepped on the gas in order to avoid it when the low-flying helicopter advanced from behind another building. To avoid a collision, Max jumped on the brakes. The chopper pilot tried to maneuver his way around but miscalculated. The chopper’s rotor hit a building and tore through its side, smashing the tiled wall. Unheard in the roar of the engines, the windows started bursting. Banking to the right, the helicopter sped forward, overtook the limo and turned around, swaying mid-air over the smashed police vehicle. Black smoke belched from its sparkling rotor.

“Hold tight!” the coach pressed his thumb against the handbrake button. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and let go of the brake.

The tires screamed. The speedometer hit red. The limo shot forward like a catapulted missile. It rammed the patrol car pushing it aside. The pilot tried to raise the damaged chopper higher but not high enough. Its chassis hit the roof of the police vehicle. The chopper banked again, straightened up and swayed aside. The cabin door opened. The pilot jumped onto the road, followed by the men in the cargo bay. The cabin went nose up. The tail boom clattered along the tarmac and broke off, the impact causing the turning rotor to collapse. A flash blinded Frank.

’Get down!” Max pushed a button on the dashboard. A set of metal blinds shuttered the windows.

The interior went dark. An explosion followed. Debris showered the car.

“Get out!”

Frank thought he misunderstood his coach. His ears were ringing from the blast. Max had already opened his door and left the car, rifle in hand.

“Follow me, quickly!” his voice resounded loud and clear as if Frank’s ears were unplugged.

Attaché case in hand, Frank scrambled out of the car. The flames burned his face. He shielded it with his elbow. The coach was advancing to a nearby house. Rifle at the ready, he had the chopper in his sights.

“Frank! The door won’t open!” he heard Maggie’s voice from inside the car.

“I’m coming!”

Rancid smoke clouded the street. His eyes running, Frank pulled the back door handle. Nothing. Squinting from the smoke, he looked inside through the front door.

“How about the other side?”

“It’s jammed, too!”

“Come out here!”

He grabbed her arm and helped her to squeeze herself between the seats and through the front door. The moment she stepped onto the ground, shots rang out from their left. Max was firing at a large black-clad figure that had appeared from the stinking smoke. The man didn’t stand a chance and collapsed without even raising his weapon. Another scrambled out of the smoke. Engulfed in flames, the already silent man wobbled to the car, stumbled over the first man’s body and slumped down on top.

“Here, quick!” the coach ran past the bodies. Frank and Maggie ran up to him.

“Open it!” Max kicked the side of a manhole cover, forcing it to jump its seating. The rifle in one hand, his eyes not leaving the burning chopper, he handed Frank a knife.

They must have driven quite a distance away from the Presidential route: this manhole wasn’t sealed as the security regulations demanded. Frank slid the edge of the knife under the lid and moved it to one side.

“You first,” he turned to Maggie wishing her to finally escape to safety.

“No,” the coach said. “You go first, Frank.”

He obeyed and sat on the edge, his dangling feet feeling the rungs beneath. Maggie handed him the attaché case. Shots snapped again, but Frank didn’t see who Max was shooting at this time. He was climbing down.

The shaft ended. Frank jumped down onto the sewer bottom. Here, the damp air was warm; it clung to his teary eyes worse than the smoke had. But at least he could breathe and no one was shooting yet.

Judging by the sound of the running water, the sewer had to be near. Either that, or there was a leak somewhere.

Maggie jumped off the ladder. Frank helped her to get up. He wanted to look around but the coach on the ladder overhead moved the lid back into place. Darkness filled the shaft.